


Show me where my armour ends

by assuwatar



Series: Moon and Sun [2]
Category: Hittite kingdom
Genre: ... I promise there are good things in this fic too, Anxiety, Cute Ending, Demisexuality, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Headcanon, Historical, I mean it's not hyper-graphic but there are battle scenes, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, actually the happiest ending of all stories I have on here so far, literally i've given these poor people way too many issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assuwatar/pseuds/assuwatar
Summary: In the shadow of Great King Šuppiluliuma's death, a withdrawn temple girl he took captive and his young and anxious son struggle to find their place in the war-torn country he left behind.





	1. First tablet

_The Gašga of the land of Durmitta became hostile, and they were at war with me._ (Ten year annals)

* * *

At first I don’t believe they’re speaking Gašga. Here in Ḫattuša, in the heartland of enemy territory, days and days and days from my home, it seems impossible. But here they are – three of them whispering my mother tongue with their heads together, at the corner of the alleyway where I take my first breaths of morning air. My back against the wall, I stand frozen. The priests would beat me all day if they caught me with Gašga men.

But I can’t step away. The sun rises above the Stone House and warms my face as I listen, trying to catch more than a broken phrase or two. Seven years of Nešite, Luwian, Palaic and Akkadian have worn my ears. The men are talking about the palace, I think, and the king. I tense at his name. The Gašga men spit it out, like a bone stuck between their teeth. One of them curses him in the name of the Moongod. Good.

‘He’ll know soon which one is greater, his Sungoddess or our Moongod,’ growls the man with the black braid, ‘when his hand is laid bare.’

‘Patience,’ says the tallest of them all. ‘First, we watch. Then…’ I don’t understand the rest, but I guess at once what he means. The Gašga tribes are preparing an attack. Which means these men are spies.

A hope I hadn’t kindled in years builds in my chest, and I edge closer. If they are spies, they know the way home – and they won’t denounce me if I follow them. I could escape this hateful place at last, this hateful Stone House with its hateful priests and their murderer king. I could melt back into the trees and mountains of my homeland. Be free.

I could be free.

‘Someone listens,’ says one of the men.

Before I can move, three heads turn towards me. Three blades are drawn. My shoulder muscles tighten, and I take a step back. Their eyes burn with anger.

‘Wait,’ I say in Gašga, just loud enough that they can hear. I mustn’t alert the priests. ‘I’m like you. A daughter of the Moongod.’ My speech is rough from lack of practise. ‘Please. They captured me years ago.’

The men look at each other. It’s the third one, well-built and with a vulture's face, who speaks.

‘We can’t take the risk. If she’s lying, we’re dead.’

My insides turn cold. The man with the braid walks towards me, his dagger reflecting the early sun. This can’t happen. We’re not enemies here. I put my hands up.

‘Listen, please…’

A swing of the man’s dagger cuts me off. My old instincts surge back in a heartbeat, and I duck. The man grunts as his weight carries him past me. I elbow him in the ribs. Not hard enough. He spins around and slashes at me, too fast. Pain flares in my shoulder. Against my will, I cry out.

‘Make her shut up,’ says the tallest man. The man next to him, the vulture-faced one, takes a step towards me while the one with the braid swings his blade again. Fighting the ache in my shoulder, I duck again and grab his arm. His surprise gives me a heartbeat to act. I bring up my knee between his legs. He collapses. I wrestle with his fist and manage to wrench out his dagger just as the vulture-faced man reaches me.

I aim for his stomach. He pulls back. He’s wary of my blade, but he knows I can’t keep this up for long. My reflexes are rusty, and I can feel the warmth of my blood trickling down my side. A skinny temple girl like me is no match for a warrior like him. I breathe in calmly. But I’m not afraid to die. Better be killed standing, and by another Gašga’s hand, than to wither away slowly in the Stone House.

The man lunges forward. I slip out of reach. His accomplice with the braid is rising to his feet, more nimbly than I’d hoped. He runs at me at the same time as the vulture-faced man, while the tall one keeps his distance. I push all my thoughts back. This is it. I swing my dagger blindly as the two men take hold of me. Blood spurts from somewhere; someone gasps. Arms grasp me, I stumble, a blade rips across my leg, and I fall.

The next thing I know, I’m lying on my stomach as silhouettes grapple each other above me. I roll over. The door to the Stone House is open, and three priests are in the alleyway, a sword each in their hands. The two Gašga men left standing back away, exchange a look, then run. The third – the man with the black braid – tries to crawl after them, blood pumping onto the ground beneath him, then crumples back down. One of the priests walks over and lowers his sword to the Gašga man’s throat.

‘In the name of the king, who are you?’

The Gašga man coughs. Blood spatters his chin.

‘Curse your king,’ he rasps in Nešite in a thick accent, ‘and curse you.’

With a shudder, he falls still. The priest sheathes his sword and kneels. He examines the dead man’s clothes, then nods.

‘Gašga swine,’ he says grimly. ‘Likely spies.’

I lift myself to my knees, not daring to look up. All three priests know me, and they know I am Gašga too. The fact I fought this man will not be enough to spare me. I stiffen my neck, braced for their verdict.

Roughly, they pull me up.

‘Come,’ they say, and they drag me away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes at the beginning of each chapter – except one – are taken from Muršili II's texts.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Nešite is the Hittite name for the Hittite language.
> 
> I chose the designator ‘Gašga swine’ because, in Muršili's own words, ‘they were swineherds and linen weavers’.


	2. Second tablet

_But now the one who is seated on his father’s throne is a child. The borders of the land of Ḫatti, and the land of Ḫatti itself, he cannot save them._ (Ten year annals)

* * *

‘Gašga spies, here in Ḫattuša?’

My advisor nods. Stomach sinking, I put down my piece of bread and rest my chin in my hand, trying to disguise my suddenly deeper breathing. My stepmother is watching me. The weight of her eyes is like lead.

‘Summon the assembly,’ I tell my advisor. ‘This affair takes precedence over the rest.’

He nods and makes his way out of the dining hall, his feet shuffling against the ground. I turn my bread over in my fingers. My throat grows tighter with each passing heartbeat. Gašga spies, here. They’ve acted so soon. My brother became a god only this winter and already they’ve found the strength to counterattack, to infiltrate our city when they know my authority is still weak. And meanwhile our former allies refuse to send back my messengers, and those that let them go call me a child… The pressure builds up all around me. I can’t breathe.

‘Pull yourself together, boy.’

My stepmother’s voice rings out across the hall, dry and loud. She takes a sip from her rhyton without her eyes leaving me.

‘You are the Great King, son of Šuppiluliuma, the Great King, grandson of Tudḫaliya, the Great King, descendant of heroes. Act like it.’

I take a deep breath and nod. She’s right. It’s my responsibility to appear in control at all times. I straighten my back, lower my hand and raise my chin. I am the king, the Sun. I can take care of Gašga swine.

Even so, the constriction in my throat won’t let up.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I say to those sharing my table. ‘I have some matters to take care of.’

I try to ignore my stepmother’s stare as I stand up and walk out of the hall, leaving my half-finished morning meal behind. Alone in the corridor, I can breathe a little better. I take a moment to stand with my back against the wall, to hold out my hands in front of me and will them to stop shaking. I can still feel my stepmother’s disapproval weighing on my neck. She longs for the days when she ruled alongside my father, I can tell. He was cunning and ruthless, just the way she liked. I’m only a boy who doesn’t deserve to be king.

I push the thought away. Deserve it or not, I have no choice. With the weight of Ḫatti on my shoulders, either I force myself to be strong, or we all die.

I make my way across the palace to the assembly hall, taking the time to mould my face into the mask I’ve grown used to wearing now. Men are already milling about when I reach the hall, talking in groups of two or three, sitting down on the benches, bowing as I walk past. The air is cold here, and I hide a shiver. Spring has been hesitant to come this year. I pull my cloak down over my bare arms and take a seat.

At once, the men fall silent and fill the rows of benches to my right and left. The Great Priest of the Stone House alone lingers near me. I swallow. He was the one to send me word of the spies.

‘With your permission, Your Sun?’

‘Speak.’

‘I have come with Ḫanutti and a temple girl, who found the Gašga spies.’ He lowers his voice. ‘You should know that the temple girl’s involvement is strange. Shall I bring them forth?’

I don’t hesitate. ‘Their testimony will be precious. Bring them in.’ The priest bows his head and vanishes, and I turn to the assembly. My palms are sweaty, but I don’t let it show. I must be the king I am expected to be.

I barely have time to explain the situation before the Great Priest returns, followed by a sturdy man with light hair, and a limping girl. I invite them to stand in the middle of the hall. Both priests bow deeply, their eyes low. The girl’s bow is more of a stumble. A bandage shows at her shoulder, near the hem of her dress.

‘Tell us what you know,’ I say to Ḫanutti.

‘It happened just after dawn,’ he begins with a glance towards the girl. ‘We were preparing the morning ritual when we heard a scream in the alley behind the Stone House. There were sounds of fighting, so we took up our swords, three of us, and ran out. This girl,’ he says and gestures towards her without looking, ‘was scrambling with three men in clothes woven in the Gašga way. Two of them ran off when we saw us, while the third was mortally wounded. He… cursed you, Your Sun, and us. He spoke in a Gašga accent. Then he died.’

I nod, doing my best to contain my anxiety at his words. A curse – yet another thing I don’t need. I turn to the girl.

‘And you? What do you have to say?’

She stays quiet. Ḫanutti digs his elbow into her ribs.

‘Forgive me, Your Sun,’ she mutters at last. There’s a foreign lilt to her voice. ‘I was only breathing the morning air. They attacked me.’

‘My king,’ says Ḫanutti slowly, ‘perhaps you should know that she is a Gašga herself.’

Whispers ripple across the assembly. I lean forward, frowning.

‘How did a Gašga come to serve in the Stone House of my ancestors?’

Ḫanutti looks at the Great Priest, who clears his throat before answering. ‘Your father’s generals brought her back seven years ago, after their conquest of Tummanna. She was found at the foot of the deity of Gašula, the only one to have survived the killing of the priests. It was established that the deity of Gašula saved her so she would serve the great family of Ḫattuša. She has been in the Stone House ever since.’

The hall is dead silent. The Great Priest shifts on his feet. ‘That’s all we know of her,’ he concludes. ‘Since she speaks so little, we even had to give her a name. The deity of Gašula sent her, so we called her Gaššulawiya.’

*

My hands balled into fists, I don’t move. I can feel dozens of eyes burning me, most of all the king’s. I refuse to look at him. He’s a murderer, descended from murderers – and soon my own blood will be on his hands too. There’s no chance he will see me as anything but guilty now. Not that it matters. Kill me or send me back to the Stone House forever to pour libations at his ancestors’ feet, I’ll never leave this hateful land.

The king calls my name.

‘Come closer,’ he says in a voice far too soft to be honest.

I edge forward, swallowing my repulsion. He’s just five steps away from me now. If only the priests hadn’t taken the dagger from me, I could’ve cut his throat then and there.

‘May the Sungod of Heaven bear witness to your words,’ he says. ‘Did you know these men?’

For a heartbeat, I consider answering that I was their accomplice, just to see the anger on his face. But that will mean a more painful death than otherwise. Gritting my teeth, I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘Why did they attack you?’

‘I overheard them talking.’

‘What did they say?’

My whole being wants to lie, to tell them I heard nothing, but the priests have already deduced the truth. Regardless of what I say, the king will know. So instead, I look up. I drive my stare right into his.

‘They were gathering information. Against you.’

It’s small, well-hidden, but I’m close enough to notice it – a tremble in the king’s demeanour. Despite the horror I feel while looking at him, I’m satisfied. He’s afraid. Not only that, I realise as he raises a hand to silence the assembly, he’s young. His cheeks are still downy like a boy’s, and his frame is lean, more like a scribe’s than a warrior’s. He must be twenty, twenty-two at most. Hardly older than me.

The thought brings me a shadow of contentment. I may be dead by nightfall, but he will be quick to follow. The Gašga tribes will have him skinned and hanged from a tree by the end of the summer.

The king turns back towards me.

‘They wounded you, didn’t they?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you fought back.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do you have any reason,’ he says to the priests, ‘to believe she was involved?’

There’s a pause. ‘She’s a Gašga, Your Sun.’

‘Has there ever been a pestilence in the Stone House while she served there?’

‘No, Your Sun.’

‘Have the gods, my ancestors, shown signs of holding her in disfavour?’

‘No.’

The king gazes at me thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with a finger. I watch him from behind the curtain of my hair. I don’t understand why he’s questioning the priest – there’s no reason to. They never draw out matters for this long in the Stone House. They simply beat me.

‘She was sent by the deity of Gašula,’ the king says at last. ‘If the gods chose her to serve my family, it can’t be without reason, and if the matter of the Gašga spies is true, we will need the gods on our side. If we accuse her and she is innocent, it could cost us far more than her life.’

As he speaks, he keeps his eyes on me, and my body grows even more tense than before. Chosen by the gods – I resist the urge to spit at his feet. There he sits, on his throne built of blood and lies, and he makes me into some innocent toy made to please his ancestors. Sparing me won’t protect him from the Moongod’s children. He will suffer, like I have suffered this hateful fate he says is a blessing.

And then it strikes me. He called me innocent. He, the murderer king whose family slaughtered my own, whose priests beat me for the smallest mistake, called me innocent.

A voice from the assembly carries across the hall. I can tell from the man’s tone that he is just as shocked as I am.

‘Your Sun, would you simply let her go free? Her, a Gašga girl, when her people are on the verge of an attack?’

The king shakes his head. ‘No, Zita. But there may be better uses for her than death. We will need to act as quickly and as effectively as possible to strike the Gašga before they can strike us. Having a Gašga girl with us, who knows their customs and speaks their language, could make all the difference. Even more so if she was sent by the gods.’ He pauses. ‘Of course, if we see her behave suspiciously, even in the slightest way, then she dies.’

I stand still as voices erupt around me, both supporting and contesting the king. A strange feeling bubbles in my chest. I don’t understand why the king suggests what he does, but it doesn’t matter. If he gives in to the shouts, I will die, like I expected to – and if he doesn’t, he will take me on campaign to the north. Then, at last, I will be able to escape. To make this land forget me.

And if the Moongod is on my side, I might take the king’s last breath with me.

The commotion dies down, and the king stands. The air is thick with tension.

‘It has been decided,’ he says. ‘We leave as soon as the necessary for this campaign is arranged, and the Gašga girl comes with us. Word of the Great King Muršili.’

He nods to the priests, and they take hold of me and lead me away. I let them.

How naive he is to think I will be this docile in the north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> When the Hittite king died, he was said to ‘become a god’.
> 
> A rhyton is a typically Hittite drinking cup in the shape of an animal, often a bull or a stag.
> 
> Sadly enough, there is evidence that Muršili may indeed have suffered from panic attacks or some form of anxiety – though probably later in life than here. The ritual known as ‘Muršili's Aphasia’ (CTH 486) describes him being struck with terror after a thunderstorm, in such a way that his speech became ‘small’ and ‘somewhat slight’ – symptoms which reappeared years later after he began to dream/have nightmares about them. This is all consistent with Mesopotamian descriptions of an anxiety state, rather than a stroke as some people have suggested. Most scholars suggest it was brought on by events later in his life, but in this story, I chose to have it already present at his accession. Considering he was already under considerable stress at the time, I don't find it particularly hard to imagine.
> 
> In all likelihood, Gaššulawiya was not a Gašga. However, a recent suggestion for the meaning of her name is ‘the deity of Gašula sent her’, which intrigued me since Gašula was a town in Gašga territory (which Šuppiluliuma did conquer in the time frame described here). Hence my headcanon for her origins was born.


	3. Third tablet

_Do not let me go to ruin… Do not let me._ (Fragmentary prayer)

* * *

We leave for the Gašga land just two days later, with light chariotry and just enough footmen as we need to guard us until we reach the stronghold on the border near Durmitta. Once arrived, my generals and I will consult with the soldiers stationed there, who are experienced in fighting in the mountains and forests of the Gašga. I do my best to appear calm as we ride out the Lion Gate. This is my chance to prove myself as the warrior king the whole of Ḫatti needs me to be.

My stepmother’s words follow me as we cross valleys and mountain passes, burning like a fire at my back. She sneered when she heard my decision about the Gašga girl. ‘You’re a naive boy,’ she said with a small shake of her head. ‘Your father would’ve had her throat cut by dusk.’

‘My father had her sent to the Stone House.’

‘Yes, the Stone House, to which she was meant to be tied forever. She should’ve kissed your divine ancestors’ feet until the end of her days. That was the condition on which she was granted life. Not on some naive whim.’

‘The priests call her Gaššulawiya.’

‘Then maybe you should’ve sent her as a scapegoat to the deity of Gašula, to spare yourself from the Gašga swine’s curse.’

She leaned back into her seat, her lips pursed into a cold smile. I’d already ordered a ritual to be executed against the evil word, but as always, to her it was not enough. She lowered her voice.

‘When the Gašga kill you, boy, don’t expect the people of Ḫatti to weep for you.’

Tightening my hand on the side of the chariot, I put her words out of my mind. The campaign is yet to play out. For the time being, I am alive, the Gašga girl walks obediently among the guards at the rear, and the gods seem to be on our side.

We rest for the night in the shelter of a rocky outcrop, where the footmen set up my tent and build a fire. I sit down and stretch my arms out towards the warmth of the flames. The men settle down around me, pulling bread and cheese from their leather bags. In the corner of my eye, I glimpse the Gašga girl hanging back near the rocks, just where the circle of light from the fire ends. I give orders for her to be brought closer. I can’t let her out of sight.

As two of the footmen lead her to us, I frown. She’s still limping. I lean towards the man who drove his chariot alongside her today and ask:

‘Has she been having trouble walking all day?’

He shrugs. ‘As far as I’ve noticed.’

‘And you left her to it?’

‘She’s a Gašga. What does it matter?’

I frown deeper, surprise mingling with anger. ‘Gašga or not, she’s coming with us to Durmitta. We can’t let her slow us down.’ Before the man can answer, I turn to the girl. I’ll deal with this myself. Her presence among us was my decision, after all.

‘Gaššulawiya, come here.’

The girl slinks around the men and comes to stand next to me, shoulders tight. It strikes me then just how tense her body is, how intensely she drives her stare into the ground. It’s almost as if she expects to be punished – though she has done nothing wrong.

‘Are your wounds painful?’ I ask.

She is silent for a long time before she answers. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can walk.’

‘Show me where you are hurt.’

After another long pause, she hitches up her dress just high enough for me to see a bandage. It’s tied around her right knee, dark with blood. My mouth twists. It looks bad.

‘Who bandaged it?’

‘An Old Woman from the temple,’ she mutters.

‘This morning?’

‘Two days ago.’

I rub my mouth to hide my shock. The dressing should’ve been changed as soon as she started bleeding through – even I know that. She may be a Gašga, but that shouldn’t be a reason for her wounds not to be taken care of. I turn back to the chariot driver.

‘Fetch a bowl of water to be warmed on the fire. Bring some of the battlefield bandages too. She needs to wash her wounds.’

The man scurries away, and I watch as the girl unbinds her knee, then pulls her sleeve down off her shoulder to undo her bandage there. Her open flesh glints in the firelight. My stomach turns. The bronze carved deeper into her than I’d imagined. She must have fought hard to receive wounds like these. Yet she grits her teeth and makes no sound as she cleans the blood off, as if it was nothing, as if she’s done this many times before.

This can’t have been her first skirmish. Who taught a girl like her to wield a blade? She’s barely more than a child, even younger than me.

She seems to sense my eyes on her, and falls still. She glares at me. I look away, but my questions don’t loosen their hold. This is a strange girl the gods have sent us.

‘Tomorrow,’ I say and turn back to the chariot driver, ‘you will let Gaššulawiya ride with you. Like it or not, she travels with us, and she needs rest.’ Despite the darkness, I can see the man roll his eyes. I make my voice harder. As kingly as I can. ‘She came with us for a reason. You will do as I say, and treat her as you would treat your own men. Understood?’

The man nods, and I let out my breath. We don’t discuss the girl for the rest of the meal. Later, when I stand up to retire to my tent, I catch sight of her lying near the rocks again, as if sleeping. She’s curled up tightly on her side, like a baby, but her eyes are open. I swallow. Now that it’s quiet, my stepmother’s voice fills my mind clearer than ever.

I hope I’ve made the right decision.

*

I’m already awake when the soldiers rise early the next morning. The chariot driver calls me and points to his chariot. I sit on the floorboards, knees pulled up to my chest, back against the wooden side, eyes firmly down. I learnt long ago how to make myself small, unnoticeable. With a bit of luck, the driver will leave me alone. He hands me a chunk of bread as we leave, but sure enough, for the rest of the day he acts as if I’m not there. Good.

The next few days are the same, and gradually, things become the way they’ve always been: the men’s whispers and stares die down, and they begin to see me more as an object they can’t misplace than as a person. I curl up on myself and let them. At night, I watch the Moongod’s face and count the stars, and I wonder how long it is until I’m alone with them. Alone, unknown, and free.

On the fourth day, as we draw close to the border, everything falls into place.

We set up camp on a ridge above a wooded valley, and one of the generals stands with the king at the edge and points. His words carry with the evening breeze. ‘The stronghold is that way,’ he says. ‘We’ll reach it tomorrow at midday. Beyond there is the Gašga land.’ Standing among the chariots, I watch and remember. Left, then on for half a day. Left, then on.

I bend then stretch my right knee. It aches less than before, enough that I can run. Travelling by chariot has given it the rest it needed. The irony almost makes me smile. Without knowing it, the king has facilitated my escape.

Then my breath catches in my throat. I slip closer to his chariot and reach out to be sure, but my eyes were right. I whisper a prayer of thanks to the Moongod. Here, in the shadows of the chariot’s walls, the king himself has left his dagger.

I won’t be alone in vanishing tonight.

I keep my head low during the evening meal, hold my elbows close to my sides, say nothing. The chariot driver brings warm water and bandages as usual and I wash my wounds, ignoring the king’s eyes on me. My hatred pulls at my stomach, but I don’t let it take over. Let him watch. Let him set his murderer’s gaze on me and think I am his divine gift. By the time his Sungoddess rises in the morning, she’ll know he was wrong.

The Moongod reaches the crown of the sky, and the men lie down to sleep. I ball myself up near the chariots and wait. Soon the men are snoring. As the two watchmen look outwards over the land, I sit up. My heart beats calmly. I crawl between the horses to where the dagger was left, feel for it, pull it from its scabbard, test its blade on my finger. It’s sharp. Good. It will cut well.

A horse snorts. I freeze, but none of the men react. They’re all sleeping deeply, and the watchmen are still turned outwards. I’ll have to slip around them somehow, but for now, I need to concentrate on the task at hand. I crawl around the chariots. The king’s tent looms ahead of me. I take a deep breath and stand up. The time has come. I step in.

Quickly, carefully, I tiptoe towards him. I can hardly see through the darkness, but I recognise a straw mattress, a confused pile of blankets, and a silhouette beneath them. His breaths are light, shallow. He must be dreaming. For a heartbeat, I wonder of what. Do the gods ever send him visions of the sins that run through his blood? Or does he sleep well while I stay awake night after night, fighting off the ghosts his father cursed me with?

It doesn’t matter. I lower the dagger to his throat. My other hand hovers above his head, ready to grasp his dark, untidy hair. One movement and it will be over – just like I saw his father’s soldiers do, seven years ago, to everyone in the temple.

One movement and Muršili, Great King, murderer king of Ḫatti, will be dead.

‘In the name of the Moongod of Gašula,’ I whisper and lean in. I want to see the death in his face. Let it replace the sight of the Moongod’s priests lying in their own blood. Let it replace the laughter of the soldiers from Ḫattuša. Let it replace their unfeeling eyes as they pulled the swords out of the children, my playmates, the boy who was only four years old and fell onto his stomach an arm’s reach away from me, and I couldn’t move, or the soldiers would see me and slit my throat too –

I clench my teeth in an effort to keep the ghosts at bay. I’m losing time. Willing my hands to be steady, I grab a fistful of the king’s hair. Now!

The king’s eyelids fling open. My heart leaping into my mouth, I pull his head back, exposing his throat, but with a swiftness I hadn’t expected of him he seizes my right wrist. The dagger bites into his skin, not deep enough. He struggles to free himself. I climb onto him and press my knee against his stomach, forcing him down. He pushes harder against my arms. His breath is ragged with fear. I wrestle my left hand free, lock my fingers around his right wrist, use my forearm to hold him still. My dagger is at his throat again. He gasps for breath.

‘Gods forgive me,’ he lets out.

I bury my knee deeper into his stomach. He whimpers. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Not ever.’

I tighten my fist on the dagger. He hardly seems like a king just then, with his tunic askew, his legs tangled in the blankets, his hair knotted from the fight, his grey eyes wide. It strikes me again just how young he looks. The people of Ḫatti are wrong to call him the Sun. He’s nothing more than a scared child.

A scared child.

But I still have to do it. My eyes riveted on his, I begin to dig the blade into his skin. From the moment he became king, after his brother’s death, he accepted to shoulder his father’s guilt. He must pay the price with his own blood.

A dark line runs down his throat. His eyes are round with terror.

A scared child.

Voices rise from outside the tent, startling me. The watchmen must’ve noticed my disappearance. It’s too late to escape now – but I can’t let myself be caught murdering the king. If I am they will kill me slowly, torture me until I can think of nothing but pain. No, I need to act. My mind set, I loosen my hold on the king. In the end, he matters less. The Gašga will deal with him as they see fit, regardless of what happens tonight. But I need to be free.

One way or another, I will be free.

*

It takes a heartbeat for me to understand what she’s doing, and by then the dagger is already at her throat. Without thinking, I grab her arms. She resists. She’s a good fighter, though her movements are rough from lack of practise. I keep hold of her hand that’s wrapped around the dagger even as her knee kicks me in the stomach. I can’t let her die like this. I need to question her first.

Putting my weight into play, I roll over until I’m on top of her and she’s on her back, her right arm twisted above her head. I pull at her fingers and finally, the dagger is wrenched from her hand. She falls still. I can feel how her body is tense against me, but she doesn’t reach for the blade again. Instead she lifts her chin, jaw set. As if waiting for her turn to die.

My stepmother’s voice surges within me. I should cut her throat, do it now, before she has a chance to threaten me again. After all, she’s made her intentions clear. I’m the Great King, the Sun – if my authority doesn’t even hold up to a skinny Gašga girl, what am I worth? My heart begins to pound against my ribs. Nothing. That’s what our former allies would say.

But the gods sent this girl to my family. I can’t have her killed without knowing why. I touch the amulet of the Sungoddess of Arinna I always wear around my neck, and try to breathe out calmly. Lowering the dagger, I let the Gašga girl go.

‘Your Sun?’

The voice sounds near the tent entrance. I have barely a heartbeat to hide the blade underneath the blankets before one of the footmen walks in, hair untied, sword unsheathed. His words trip over each other in their hurry.

‘Forgive me, but the Gašga girl…’

He interrupts himself. He’s seen her silhouette next to me. He clears his throat, shifting on his feet, and I guess at once what he’s thinking. I swallow the urge to correct him. Best if he doesn’t know what just happened – that I let myself be caught off guard by a girl, holding my very own weapon, and that she was close to prevailing over me. This is something for me to deal with alone. Trying to seem far more confident than I feel, I nod towards the entrance.

‘Leave us.’

He’s quick to obey. I turn back to Gaššulawiya, discomfort building at the thought of what the men will be whispering tomorrow. She’s still lying on her back, motionless, her face hard. I slip a hand underneath the blankets to take the dagger, just in case.

‘Who are you?’ I breathe.

Her eyes avoid mine. ‘Nobody.’

‘Tell the truth.’

‘It is the truth,’ she hisses. ‘I’m just a priest’s daughter from Gašula.’

‘Then why did the deity of Gašula spare you?’

‘He didn’t spare me. He spared my life. It’s different.’

Her jaw is tight with hatred. I can hear it. It makes my breath thin again, and I rub my thumb against the dagger’s hilt to keep my hand from trembling. This girl almost killed me. I touch my throat where she dug the blade in and feel the stickiness of blood on my fingers. Not for the first time, I wonder if this isn’t all an accident. Maybe the gods didn’t send her. Maybe my stepmother was right. Maybe I’m sitting here with a murderer in my bed.

‘Pull yourself together, boy,’ says the familiar voice in my mind. ‘You should’ve expected this.’

With my sleeve, I wipe away the blood on my throat. I still have questions to ask.

‘Why didn’t you kill me?’

She twists around to glare at me. ‘Why didn’t you?’

Guilt roils in my stomach. The words slip out before I can stop them. ‘Because I’m not my father.’

A strange emotion flits across her face. She blinks and looks away. It almost seems as if she’s holding back tears.

‘You still carry his sins,’ she whispers.

I frown, but don’t reply. She curls up tighter in the corner of the mattress. I watch her for a long time, my chin resting in my palm, and wonder what to do. My own words to the assembly echo at my ears. However much the girl insists she tells the truth, her words are like blades, her tense muscles like armour – which means there’s something underneath. Something that wants me dead. She’s made that clear.

But also something else. I can hear it in the lilt of her voice; I could even see it, in that heartbeat before she pulled the dagger from my throat to hers. My father must have seen it too. Regardless of whether or not the gods sent it, I can’t let it die yet.

Before doubt can creep into my mind, I stand up and carry the dagger outside. One of the guards is lying next to the tent’s entrance. I shake his shoulder. ‘Keep watch here,’ I tell him and give him the dagger, then return inside. The girl is sitting up among the blankets, her eyes following me from under her dark eyebrows. All emotion is gone from her face.

‘I won’t tell the men what you tried to do,’ I say. ‘But you will sleep here tonight, and tomorrow your chariot will travel alongside mine. You will not leave my sight until we reach the stronghold, and there we will have a longer, honest conversation. Am I clear?’

She nods and shuffles off the bed onto the floor, where she huddles in a ball almost protectively. I hold out a blanket – the night is cold – but she doesn’t take it. I shrug and leave her alone. I sleep lightly that night. But the girl doesn’t move, and as I drift in and out of dreams, I wonder which she wanted most, to kill me, or to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The Old Women were women of a certain age (though not necessarily elderly) who were affiliated with temples. They are best known for being involved in rituals against various afflictions, among which the evil word.


	4. Fourth tablet

_Let them go and live, let them eat and drink._ (Proclamation of Telepinu)

* * *

I should be dead.

The thought burns me to the bone as we ride to the stronghold the next morning. I held a blade to the king’s throat, and instead of having me executed then and there, he let me live. I tighten my hand so hard on the edge of the chariot that my nails dig into the wood. I shouldn’t be here. I should be lying in a pool of my own blood, or far away, hidden in the forests of my homeland.

Either way, I should be gone.

I don’t believe it’s mercy. For seven years now, the people of Ḫatti have been toying with my life, keeping it as a trophy when it suits them, forgetting it when it doesn’t, but still holding onto it in case it grows useful. This king is no exception. He may not beat me like the priests did in the Stone House, but his gesture is hardly more considerate. He’s playing a game and he knows he’s weak. He thinks I can help him win.

I glance over towards where he’s riding. The cuts on his throat are well-hidden behind his untied hair, and his face reveals nothing of what happened last night. Despite everything, I feel a hint of pity. He’s trying so hard to appear powerful. His father’s shadow hangs over him too – though in a very different way.

A scared child.

I bite my tongue. It doesn’t matter. Young or not, scared or not, he still deserves to die.

We reach our destination just as the sky starts clouding over. The stronghold is squat, with buildings tightly packed together: several barracks, a keep, a courtyard, and a stone wall enclosing them all. Beyond them, the forest rustles, endless. We ride up the hill and through the gates to the courtyard, where I am told to step down from the chariot and follow a guard to the keep. Without a word, he leads me to a sparsely furnished room and closes the door behind me. I hear the bolt fall into place. I’m locked in.

Arms wrapped around my waist against the growing cold, I walk up to the window. The Gašga land spreads out to the horizon. I’d have thought I’d feel an emotion when I saw it, but instead I’m strangely uncaring. After all, it wasn’t so much my homeland I longed for, all these years. It was the idea of vanishing into a place which doesn’t want anything of me, where I could be nothing, like I’m meant to be.

Except now I’m imprisoned here.

I wonder if I should jump. But the window is just high enough that I’ll survive the impact but not be able to run afterwards – no use. Instead I lie down on the bed, and I listen as the rain begins to fall.

The king comes in the early evening. He brings a blanket, which he places at the end of the bed before sitting down next to it. I turn my back. I don’t need his hateful blanket. I’ve slept in the cold many times before.

‘Gaššulawiya,’ he says, ‘it’s time to tell the truth.’

I stay quiet. There’s no truth to tell. Only the ghosts of dead Gašga, and a survival he persists in calling a blessing.

‘Were you involved with those Gašga spies in Ḫattuša?’ he asks.

I say nothing. He knows I wasn’t, and either way, it doesn’t matter.

He lets out a sigh. ‘If you weren’t involved, then why did you try to kill me?’

It doesn’t matter.

‘And who taught you how to fight?’

It still doesn’t matter.

‘In the name of the Sungod of Heaven, girl, speak to me!’

‘You deserve to choke on your own blood.’

That makes him fall silent. Too silent. I’d hoped to draw a reaction out of him, make him beat me like the priests would’ve, or call for a guard to come execute me. At least then his contempt would be clear. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, and the silence lengthens. All I can hear is his wavering breath.

At last he speaks.

‘If you could kill me now, would you?’

‘Yes.’ I’m too far gone to lie.

‘Then do it.’ He leans over and places something next to me. ‘Here’s the dagger.’

I start. Of all the things I’d expected, this wasn’t one. It must be a trick – the moment I touch that dagger, a soldier will burst into the room and cut me down. But when I look up, there’s nothing but sincerity in his face. Lips pressed firmly against each other, he swallows, lifts his chin, and waits.

I pick up the dagger. He doesn’t move. Slowly, I place it against his throat, across yesterday’s scabbing cut. His breath quickens, but he doesn’t pull back. I hold his life in my hands now. It would only take heartbeats to end it, and then my own. I meet his grey eyes.

A scared child.

Like me.

*

Her hand stays locked in place, but I see the change in her eyes. They widen, though she doesn’t look away, and something that I can’t name passes behind them. For a long time, she stares. The bronze warms against my skin. I do my best to control my breathing, knowing she could still press in at any moment. This is the greatest risk I’ve taken since I sat down on the throne of Ḫattuša. If I’m wrong, we’re all lost.

But she doesn’t press in. She stays frozen just like last night, her fingers steady but motionless on the hilt, the blade rising and falling with each of my breaths.

Cautiously, I lift a hand. Her dark-lashed eyes dart towards it, but she holds still. I place my palm against the flat edge of the dagger. Careful not to touch her, in case she’s startled, I push down. At first her muscles hold firm. Then she lets her breath out, and allows me to guide the blade away from my throat.

I was right. She’s not a murderer.

My fingers drift to the amulet hanging from my neck. I owe the Sungoddess of Arinna an offering. My stepmother, my father, even my eldest brother would’ve called me a naive boy for putting my life into her hands like this, but a Great King needs to trust his gods. Right now, I think and force back another wave of anxiety, they’re all I have.

Gaššulawiya’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

‘You’re still going to die.’ Her eyes are on my amulet. She hasn’t let go of the dagger. ‘My people will skin you alive.’

‘Were you hoping to join them last night?’

She speaks flatly. ‘It wouldn’t make a difference.’

‘They’re your people.’

‘Your father killed the ones that mattered.’

There’s a crack in her voice, barely audible. In my mind, my stepmother sneers that I shouldn’t feel sympathy for Gašga swine, for a girl who tried to kill me, but I can’t help it. I remember how it felt when I heard the people of Mizra had slaughtered one of my brothers. Even almost seven years later, the thought takes my breath away.

I drive the emotion from my voice. ‘Then where were you planning to go?’

‘Away.’

She sits with her shoulders pulled up to her neck, her forest-brown hair veiling part of her face as if she wanted to disappear behind it. Though her armour is thick, I’m beginning to understand. I’m still certain the gods sent her for a reason – but maybe that’s not what should matter for now. She’s not that different from me, after all. She’s just a child, caught up in something greater than she can grapple with. Longing to escape.

I pull gently on the dagger, and it slides from her hand. I stand up. ‘We’ll talk again soon,’ I tell her. ‘Rest. I’ll have someone bring you a meal.’

Until I leave the room, she doesn’t move.

The next days are busy with battle preparations: messengers are dispatched to the other strongholds on the frontier, spies are sent out into the forest, and my generals draw strategies on wax tablets all day and ask for my approval. My mind swims with information. I’m no stranger to war – my father made a point of bringing me to the front from a young age, ‘to teach that cursed sensitivity of yours,’ he’d say, ‘what real men are’ – but directing the operations myself is a different matter. Twice, my palms grow sweaty and my legs begin to shake as I listen to reports, and I dismiss the men while I have a drink and wait for the feeling to subside. I can’t let it show. Either I’m strong, or we die.

I only have time to visit Gaššulawiya rarely, after my evening meal, and her answers are terse as always. After several more fruitless attempts, I stop asking her about her past and simply make sure she has what she needs. That seems to surprise her. Once, along with her daily water for washing, I offer to have oils brought to clean her hair. She replies that she doesn’t need them, and I’m left wondering what kind of environment she’s lived in for her never to have had oils for her hair.

She only asks for something a single time. Her face turned towards the window, she says it in a whisper. ‘Let me be in the forest.’ I have to refuse. If she runs away, the soldiers will know, and I’ll lose what little favour the gods granted me in this fight.

Day after day, my men bring me news of skirmishes between the trees, but nothing more. It takes almost a quarter of a month for the spies to find where the Gašga warriors of Durmitta are holding camp. I spend that morning in discussion with my generals, deciding how we will lead the attack, how best to surprise them, how many footmen we will send. The unspoken necessity hangs over me: I will go with them. This victory, the first of my reign, must be mine.

I try not to think of the fact I might not come back.

We agree to leave at dusk – if the gods are with us, we’ll encircle the camp while the Gašga sleep. In the afternoon, I stand at the forest’s edge and think of Gaššulawiya. If I die, my stepmother will likely have her executed on my funeral pyre. An appropriate end, she’d say, for a temple girl sent to serve the great family.

Abruptly, I make a decision. I call the guards who accompanied me.

‘Bring down the Gašga girl.’ They bow their heads, and one of them makes his way uphill to the stronghold. The other waits next to me.

If it’s our lot to die young, let us at least die well.

*

The Great King Muršili stands where the grass meets the forest. I walk over to him slowly, knowing the soldier at my back has his hand on his sword. I wonder if the king has finally decided to execute me. Maybe he hopes the sacrifice of a daughter of the Moongod to his Sungoddess will help him win the battle tonight.

He gestures towards the trees.

‘You wanted to come here. Go. We’ll follow.’

Anger flares in my chest. If he thinks this is what I wanted, to stroll through the forest with a murderer king and two soldiers from Ḫattuša behind me, he’s dead wrong. I ball up my hands into fists and wonder – yet again – why I didn’t kill him when I had the chance. He’s naive, and weak, and he toys with me, and –

And he’s standing here with a gentle expression, and offering me something I asked for.

Uncurling my fists again, I take a step into the forest. The earth is cold and wet underneath my bare feet. I walk further forward, listening to the birds chirp and the leaves crunch as I go. The stronghold disappears behind me. I pretend the king and his soldiers aren’t there and I let the land fill all my senses, the fresh breeze, the warm sun, the humming of bees, the stream gurgling just out of sight. For the first time in a long time, I feel my shoulders relax. I’m not free, but here, in this forest that doesn’t want anything of me, I’m almost peaceful.

The three men’s steps behind me are far louder than mine. I don’t turn around to look. None of us matter here. I keep walking and find myself in a clearing, where the grass is long and bright with flowers. I kneel down. If only I could stay here forever, let my body become a part of this whispering landscape.

A movement catches my eye. The king enters the clearing and stops just a few steps away from me, while the soldiers hang back. He sits down among the flowers. Pulls one from its stem and twists it in his fingers.

‘Is it what you wanted?’ he asks.

I watch his twirling fingers and say nothing. I should hate him. I should curse him in the Moongod’s name, like that Gašga man did back in Ḫattuša. He should respond with the ruthlessness of his father, strike me down on the spot and make me bleed like his father made everyone in the temple bleed. We shouldn’t be sitting next to each other, here, among flowers.

‘Why do you have to act like this?’ I mumble.

‘Like what?’

‘You give me things. Bandages. Blankets. Oils. Two meals a day. And now this.’

He plucks a petal and lets it drift to the ground. ‘Gašga or not, you’re a person. It would be wrong not to treat you like one.’

‘I would’ve cut your throat.’

He glances nervously at the soldiers. They’re talking to each other, out of earshot. ‘But you didn’t.’

I stay quiet. Whether or not I followed through shouldn’t matter in his eyes. After a pause, he continues: ‘Generations ago, there was a Great King of Ḫatti called Telepinu. His enemies tried to murder him, but they were stopped. He had them brought before the assembly, and it was determined they should be put to death. But Telepinu refused. “Why should they die?” he said. “I will take the weapons from their shoulder and make them into farmers.” He said: “They harmed me, but I will not harm them.”’

He plucks another petal and looks at me. I don’t return his gaze.

‘You’d make me into a farmer.’

‘No.’ It’s almost a laugh. ‘But I think there are better things for you than death.’

‘Better ways to serve you, you mean.’

‘I mean better ways for you to live.’

I summon my anger, my hatred, but nothing comes. He really isn’t his father, I think, and my insides tighten. It would be easier for both of us if he was. Instead he’s just a toy, like me, a bull his family laid their hands on and sent into the wilderness to purge themselves of their sins. Too young. Too soft-hearted. And doomed.

He’s plucked all the petals off the flower now. He breaks the stalk in half and drops it into the grass, then rubs the pollen off his hands.

‘It’s getting dark,’ he says. ‘We need to go back to the stronghold.’

He stands, and after one last look at the clearing I follow him. We walk back in silence. That night, amid the commotion, the man who brings me my meal forgets to lock the door behind him, but for a reason I don’t quite understand, I don’t slip out and run. It’s no use anyway, I try to tell myself as I press my forehead against the wood – I’ll never make it out of the stronghold unnoticed. But somehow that’s not what’s holding me back.

When I fall asleep, I dream of ghosts as always, but this time they’re among flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> This is the only chapter to begin with a quote that wasn't authored by Muršili. For more on the Proclamation of Telepinu, check out my story ‘Let it end’ :)
> 
> The ‘bull his family laid their hands on and sent into the wilderness’ refers to a Hittite scapegoat ritual described in ‘Muršili's Aphasia’. If evil (in Muršili's case, speech problems) affected the king, he would ritually lay hands on a bull, thus transferring the evil to it, then the bull would be led outside the city and killed. Incidentally, this is the ritual the Tawananna suggests should be done with Gaššulawiya as the scapegoat in the previous chapter.


	5. Fifth tablet

_I did not sin in any way, but that’s the way it is: the father’s sin is placed onto his son. My father’s sin has been placed onto me._ (Prayer to the Stormgod of Ḫatti)

* * *

The moon has set by the time we reach the Gašga camp. There’s about two hundred of them against our three hundred, but they’re asleep, and our scouts have their guards killed before they can make a sound. We creep forward, swords drawn. The first Gašga die without even waking up. Somewhere, someone squeals before their mouth is covered and a blade stuck through their neck. The valley is quiet again. I let out my breath as I advance among the dead bodies. It seems our victory will be easier than I’d anticipated.

Just as the thought forms, there’s a shout.

Like a ripple in a pool, more than a hundred silhouettes leap up. I hear the clash of bronze against bronze. My heart flips. Men are racing towards me, their weapons hardly distinguishable from their arms in the darkness. I raise my sword. Solid grasp, loose muscles. One foot in front of the other. Don’t think too much, just –

The shock travels all the way down my blade to my wrist. In a heartbeat, I forget all my father’s teachings. I dart forward then back again, forward then back again, hoping to the gods I see each of my adversaries’ blows before they reach me. Several other men from my troops take up position next to me. Everything is a confused blend of black shadows on dark grey, blades barely glinting, men screaming and gurgling and calling out orders in both Nešite and Gašga. All I can think of is to protect my head and chest. I’m already gasping for breath.

The sword hits me before I can register what’s happening. I collapse onto my hands and knees. Above me, the battle rages on. I think my troops are winning, but it’s more of a hope than an assessment. I press a hand to my aching ribs. It comes back wet with blood.

But I’m not dead yet. With a grunt, I heave myself back onto my feet. There really are less Gašga than before. Some fight on, their linen clothes blotted and clinging to their bodies, and others seem to be running for the trees. I cut down a man that lunges at me. The swing of my sword makes my side burn. I need to keep fighting. I can’t give up now. I clench my jaw and lift my sword again.

It’s over almost as suddenly as it began. More than three quarters of our men are left standing; the others are sprawled on the ground, wounded or dead. The ones that are still worth rescuing are pulled to their feet, each of their arms slung over a shoulder, and helped back to where the rest of our soldiers are gathering. I follow them carefully. Somehow, the landscape seems darker, even less defined than before. I can only recognise my generals based on the shape of their helmets. They bow when they see me.

‘The gods fought with us today,’ one of them says.

I try to answer. Instead, I stumble forward and everything turns black.

I’m only half awake when the men carry me back to the stronghold, my chest lathered in the blood plant and tied up with battlefield bandages. Distantly, I’m aware of the stares and whispers as we enter the keep. ‘Weak boy,’ my mind says in my stepmother’s voice. I try to block it out. It’s replaced by a new surge of pain, and my legs buckle again under me.

I wake up in bed with what feels like fresh bandages, though parts of them are already warm with blood. My mind is still swimming. Through the pain, I notice a shadow standing next to me. I blink. My eyes won’t work properly. I’m not sure how long it takes, how many times I drift in and out of consciousness before I recognise who it is. The girl – Gaššulawiya. I don’t understand how she’s here, but the pain stops me from wondering. I close my eyes.

‘You’ve come to see me die,’ I breathe. My voice is thin and dry.

I hear her shuffle closer.

‘I told you they’d do it,’ she whispers back.

For what feels like an eternity, silence fills the room. Through cracked lips, I mouth a prayer to the Sungoddess of the Netherworld. Please, at least kill me swiftly.

A strange sound comes from next to me. I force my heavy eyelids open. Gaššulawiya is standing by the table to my right and crushing something in a mortar. I squint. Small, white flowers on long stalks – the blood plant.

‘She won’t listen,’ she says. ‘The laws of the gods are cruel. That’s the way of things.’ She lifts the mortar in her hands and comes to kneel at my side. ‘They use your blood to wash away sins that aren’t yours.’

I close my eyes again as a new wave of pain hits me. Something touches my chest. It pulls at my bandages. My eyes snap open. Her fingers lightly brushing my skin, she wipes away the blood and spreads the blood plant’s paste over the wound.

‘Why?’ I let escape.

‘Because you’re not your father.’

She almost smiles then, the corners of her lips lifting sadly. Her touch is like feathers, as if something holds her back, but she doesn’t pull away. She reaches for the table and unrolls another bandage that she presses against my wound. Carefully, she binds it again.

I clear my throat. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’ll still die.’ She fastens the bandage in place. ‘You know you have to.’

My stepmother’s voice overlays hers. I clench my eyes to make it go away. By the time I open them again, the room is dark. I must’ve fallen unconscious again. I lift my head as much as I can manage and look for Gaššulawiya. She’s gone.

Something rustles at the foot of the bed. She’s not gone. Curled into a tight ball, her eyebrows drawn into a frown, she’s sleeping. I put all the strength I have into my arms and lever myself up. Black spots swirl in front of my eyes, but I manage to keep myself upright. I tug off one of the blankets wrapped around me. Drape it over her. Her eyelids flutter, and she looks up at me.

‘I don’t need it,’ she says.

‘Take it anyway.’

As I lie back down, she buries herself in it, and I watch her until the darkness takes my mind again.

*

A man’s voice wakes me up. I leap to my feet and back towards the wall – I should’ve known someone would come back before long to take care of the king. They’d left him to rest when I crept in, they’d gone to help the other wounded, but of course they would return before the night. The man’s face turns dark when he sees me. I brace myself for punishment.

‘Out, Gašga swine,’ he growls. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’

‘Let her stay.’

Muršili’s order is more of a croak, but his words are clear. The man frowns in surprise.

‘She ran from her room, Your Sun, she’s –’

‘I said let her stay.’

With a sigh, the man moves around the bed, making sure to avoid me, and places a bowl of soup on the table. He pulls down the blankets to reveal the king’s chest. The bandages are still clean and secure where I tied them. The blood plant has stopped the worst of the bleeding.

‘If it stays like this, Your Sun, you will survive,’ says the man. ‘May the gods be with you.’

Muršili nods, his face a sickly white. It doesn’t look like they are.

‘Propitiate the Sungoddess of the Netherworld,’ he rasps. ‘And Lelwani, and Ištar of the Battlefield.’

‘Yes, Your Sun.’

The man feels for the king’s pulse, then reaches into his tunic and removes several more stalks of the blood plant, which he places next to the mortar where I crushed the last ones. He helps Muršili sit up, then hands him the soup.

‘Eat as much as you can. It will help you gain back your strength.’

The king nods. The bowl is shaking in his grasp. He speaks weakly.

‘Leave me.’

Bowing his head, the man makes for the door. When his hand is on the lock, he halts and looks back at me, brow furrowed.

‘Should I have food brought for your concubine too, Your Sun?’

I glare at him. The king’s concubine – as if I would let myself be taken by the son of the Sungoddess, and the heir of a murderer. I would cut this man’s heart out right here if I had something to do it with. The king, though, keeps his voice neutral.

‘Yes, bring Gaššulawiya food.’

The man closes the door behind him, and my mind is left whirring with the hateful rumours the soldiers whisper in my back.

But I don’t leave. Day after day, I keep watch at Muršili’s bedside, and somehow he lets me clean his wound and bind it again every morning despite his men’s side-eyes. The sword carved deep into his flesh, I learn, sideways across his ribs, then down into his waist. The gash is sickle-shaped, like a sign from the Moongod. In a way I don’t quite understand, it makes my insides ache. I don’t care, I try to convince myself, he doesn’t matter. My people will claim his life sooner or later, and I will run, or be killed by the soldiers, and we will both be free. But the thought doesn’t sound as sweet as it used to. I remember Muršili’s words in the clearing. His voice so gentle.

I sleep on the floor by his bed every night, nestled in the blanket he gave me.

The world doesn’t stop around us. Every day, the generals come and discuss strategies with the king, and I sit in a corner and make myself small. The battle against the warriors of Durmitta was a victory for Ḫatti, but more Gašga tribes have rallied with lightning speed. This is the attack they were preparing. When spies bring the news, just before the Moongod’s face is full, that they’re marching straight for the stronghold, I hear Muršili’s breath catch in his throat. He knows this battle will be far harder than the last.

Straightening his back and lifting his chin, he hands the wax tablet back to his generals.

‘Call for reinforcements from the other strongholds, and prepare our troops for open battle. We’ll discuss this again tomorrow.’

The men bow their heads and leave. Muršili stays still. I notice his hands are gripping the sheets, so hard that his knuckles are turning pale. Each of his breaths is shallower than the last. I stand up and edge towards him. His eyes stay fixed on the opposite wall.

‘Does your wound hurt?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘Water,’ he pants.

I hurry to fill his rhyton from the pitcher on the table. His face is brimming with a fear I’ve never seen there before. He takes the rhyton in both his hands and sips from it, shaking, still staring at the wall. I don’t know what to do. He’s trying to seem in control, but he only seems vulnerable. So vulnerable.

Somehow I find myself sitting down at his side, reaching out to touch his arm. His skin is rough with goosebumps. When he speaks, it’s hardly louder than a whisper.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t react like this.’ He gulps. ‘Gods forgive me, I should be stronger, like my father.’

‘Don’t be your father.’

He clutches the rhyton to his chest. ‘Everyone would have me be. My stepmother, the assembly, the troops, our former allies –‘

‘I wouldn’t.’

I brush away a lock of hair from his face to see his eyes. At first he won’t look at me, but gradually, his breathing calms and the shaking subsides. Only then does he meet my gaze. His lips tremble. I realise it’s supposed to be a smile.

‘You’re a strange girl,’ he murmurs.

I keep my hand on his arm and say nothing. That evening, I stay on the edge of the bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, and when Muršili’s breathing grows irregular again, I run my fingers through his hair until it eases. Later, I know, he will have to die. Later. For now, I sit with him until he falls into dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The blood plant is achillea millefolium, or yarrow. As far as I'm aware, there are no mentions of it in Hittite texts, but since it grew in the region, they likely knew and used it.


	6. Sixth tablet

_Set me ablaze._ (Fourth prayer to the assembly of the gods)

* * *

When I wake up, Gaššulawiya is next to me, bundled up in her blanket like in a cocoon. She’s close enough that I could graze her if I stirred, so I stay still. She sleeps so lightly.

I close my eyes again. Despite yesterday’s news, for the first time since we arrived at the stronghold, something about her presence makes my flurried thoughts silent. I’ve shared my bed with palace girls twice before – both at the prompting of my stepmother – but their touch only made me uneasy, and when they wrapped themselves around me I felt nothing; now, next to this girl who would’ve killed me, who guards herself even asleep, I’m strangely comfortable. Part of me tells me I’m too trusting, that sooner or later it will cost me my life. Part of me wants to keep her by my side forever.

But I need to get to work. Carefully, I lift myself up until I’m sitting, then I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. I’ve been practising these last few days, walking from the bed to the door as Gaššulawiya watches. My steps are still unsteady and my side still aches to the bone, but I can’t give in now. When the Gašga attack, the soldiers will need to see me on the battlefield with them.

I make my way down into the corridor and into the gathering hall, where the generals and a small clutch of soldiers are having their morning meal. They bow when they see me, and move along so I have room to sit on the bench. I feel their eyes on me as I help myself to bread. They’re assessing my health. I ignore it and make my voice as firm as I can once we begin talking.

We go over strategies again and discuss the details of the battle to come, the tablets with the notes gathered from our spies on the table in front of us. The latest reports state the Gašga will be here in two days. If all goes well we will meet them in the open, between the stronghold and the forest. I think back to our last battle and rub my side nervously. If. In the afternoon, I have a lamb sacrificed to the Sungoddess of Arinna and pray for her protection.

Gaššulawiya is sitting on the bed when I return. She moves over so I can lie down – after standing for so long during the sacrifice, my legs feel like water – then places herself next to me, hugging her legs to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. Her eyes are the colour of the night, I notice, deep and starless. Easy to vanish behind.

‘Tomorrow I’ll take you to the forest again,’ I say. ‘If you want to go.’

She nods once. Her fingers have found their way into my hair again, and I relax into her touch. I don’t think she’s aware of how calm it makes me feel.

‘If your people kill me in battle,’ I ask, ‘will you try to escape?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does to me.’

Her fingers slow, then stop. ‘Because I’ll have betrayed your family when the gods sent me to serve you.’ Her voice is tight with scorn.

‘No. Because you deserve better than to die like this.’

She pulls her arm away and goes back to hugging her legs. ‘Either way, I’ll be gone.’

Her tone makes my heart squeeze. She’s fending me off again, as if she expects me to tell her she’s right, neither of us should care what happens to her in the end. I sit up, tilt my head so I can see her face. She avoids my eyes.

‘How long have you been fighting this war?’ I whisper.

‘What war?’

‘This.’ I run a finger along her shoulder. Her body is still as stone. ‘How did you pick up this shield?’

‘It’s always been mine.’

I wait for her to continue, but she only gives the wall a hard stare. The tips of my fingers brush against her skin. Finally, she lets out a sigh.

‘You’re a palace child from Ḫattuša. You don’t know life in the Gašga land.’

‘Then tell me.’

She shoots me a sideways glance. ‘We struggle. It’s the way of things. We fight everyone. The other tribes. Pala. Ḫayaša. You.’

Silence grows between us, and I don’t dare to break it. Outside, the sky darkens and begins to fill with stars. When at last she speaks again, her voice is softer than usual.

‘I don’t want to be your enemy, you know.’

My heart hammering against my ribs, I hold out my hand to her. She hesitates for what feels like forever, then takes it. I pull her to me. She lays her head against my shoulder, and she looks at me with her eyes dark as night.

‘You’re not my enemy,’ I breathe.

‘Then show me how.’ Her fingers skim my temple. ‘Show me where my armour ends.’

Lightly, I kiss her forehead.

‘Here.’

*

Two days later, Muršili leaves for battle again.

I watch him through half-closed eyes when he rises and dresses before dawn, his chest still wrapped in a bandage. He’s determined – I can see it in the way he holds his chin up and presses his lips together – but he can’t hide the weakness of his movements. It will be even more obvious in broad daylight. The Moongod’s children won’t spare him this time.

He seems to know it as he kneels next to me and runs his thumb along the edge of my face, then kisses my forehead.

‘Remember what I said.’ His breath is warm against my skin. ‘You can find a way to live well, however this ends.’

Without giving me time to answer, he stands back up and fastens his helmet under his chin. I listen to the door close behind him. He hasn’t locked it. Run, says the old instinct, and I wrap myself tighter into the blankets to block it out. I won’t go until I know how today’s battle has played out.

At sunrise, I slip out of bed and walk to the window. Soldiers are gathering in the courtyard, the footmen’s shapes disappearing behind the double circles of their shields, the chariots looming above them. I recognise Muršili’s at once by the suns painted on its sides. Between his chariot driver and his shield bearer, he will be well covered, but my hands still contract on the windowsill. He can’t be missed.

As the sun rises above the trees, the men pour out of the gates in rows. The battlefield is out of my sight, so I sit with my back against the wall and listen. At the mid-morning, shouts ring out, followed by the trampling of feet. Then the screams begin.

I press my palms to my temples and shut my eyes. The ghosts swirl around me, the priests who were the first to die, the children, the boy who fell down close to me – it feels as if they’re the ones crying out, not the soldiers outside. Muršili’s father did this. He sent the men who would put away their mercy and laugh as my people died. He brought these sins down onto his son’s head, and now his son is paying the price.

I remember Muršili’s words in the clearing, the story about the Great King who let his enemies live. For a heartbeat, I wonder if sins really can be taken off a man and turned into goodness. Could Muršili’s soft, forgiving soul be enough to outweigh them? I lean my head back against the wall. Of course it can’t. Only blood can wash away innocent blood.

I listen to the clamour of battle rise and fade, then rise again and grow deafening. In the late afternoon, the clash of metal begins to give way to moans – the sound of those left to die. My shoulders drawn up, my elbows close to my waist, I peek out the window. Men are filtering back through the gates. Chariots, less of them than before, follow close behind. I scan their patterned sides for Muršili’s suns. I can’t find them. I wait for more chariots to come.

They don’t.

With a deep breath, I turn away from the window. It’s time to make my decision. If I creep out of the room now, amid the aftermath of the battle, the men might not notice me. I could keep my head low, make myself small like I’ve done so often before, steal through the gates and away into the wilderness. At last, I will be free – my stomach twists. Somehow, now, the thought sounds horribly wrong.

But Muršili was right. Better that than be killed by the soldiers. I take a step towards the door.

It opens. I tense as the man who comes in makes straight for me and takes my shoulders. I’m too late. I brace myself for orders, a blade at my throat, and then, in a sudden flash, I recognise who it is holding me. His clothes are dirty and his hair lanky with blood, but it’s him. It’s him. I let out a small cry.

‘How?’

‘My chariot overturned.’ He’s panting, as if he raced up here. ‘It saved my life. I was taken onto another and the Gašga lost me –’

‘Are you hurt?’

He looks down at his tunic dark with gore. ‘No. But Gaššulawiya, we won the battle, we –’

I take his face in my hands and kiss him.

His lips taste like blood and sweat, but they’re also soft, and in a heartbeat he’s kissing me back. His hands clasp me ever so gently, his fingers stroking the line of my jaw, burrowing into my hair. His mouth finds mine again and again. When he pulls away to meet my eyes, his brow furrows and he brushes my cheek.

‘Don’t cry,’ he murmurs.

‘I thought you were dead.’

‘I’m not.’ He kisses my lips again, then my forehead. ‘I’m not.’

‘I don’t want you to die.’ The words are out of my throat before I can think. I keep my eyes locked on his. They’re welling up too. ‘I don’t care that you carry your father’s sins. You don’t deserve it.’

‘You would challenge the laws of blood?’

I clench my jaw. ‘Yes.’

I tell it to him again that evening, when he’s washed and changed into fresh clothes and lying in the light of the Moongod. I lie down next to him, propped up on my elbows so I can see his face. He’s beautiful. I long to kiss him again, to find out what his lips taste like without the aftermath of a battle on them, but it’s so much harder now that I have the time to think. Maybe he’ll only push me away.

‘It’s true, what I said before,’ I say as I untangle a knot in his hair. ‘I don’t care that you’re supposed to die for your father’s sins. We’ll find another way.’

He smiles a little. ‘We will?’

‘Yes. We’ll do what your ancestor did. Put an end to the blood and make it into something better. We’ve got to try.’

I hear the catch in his breath and place my hand on his chest before the fear can settle in. My fingers trace his ribs, rising and falling. I can’t help but notice the quiver of his muscles underneath his skin, the way he almost closes his eyes, but not quite.

‘Telepinu paid a harsh price for his decision,’ he says. ‘The enemies he set free killed his wife and son. When my father told us the story, he always said that gentleness can’t put an end to bloodshed.’

‘Curse your father. We’ll be the first to do it.’

He lifts a hand to cradle my face. Slowly, he draws me closer and kisses me. His lips taste warm, they taste like him.

‘Maybe we will,’ he says, and in that moment I never want him to let me go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> ‘Set me ablaze’ is, in all likelihood, a spelling mistake: the scribe would've confused ‘burn’ (warnu-) with the more typical ‘turn towards’ (waḫnu-). Still, I absolutely love this phrase and given the developments in this chapter, I couldn't resist quoting it!
> 
> I feel obligated to mention that one of the two times Muršili slept with women was quite possibly in a ritual, in which the prince lay down in a specific house and twelve prostitutes were brought to him. (The rest is lost, but it can easily be imagined.) On a side note, you have no idea how many articles on Hittite sexuality there are out there - and speaking of sexuality, there is absolutely no evidence that Muršili could've been demisexual, but I liked the idea anyway and it fits with the narrative I'm building. Sue me.
> 
> Lastly, I should point out that the credit for the title, ‘Show me where my armour ends’, goes to the song ‘Pluto’ by Sleeping At Last. I listened to this song quite a bit while writing, so go have a listen if you want to get an idea of it :)


	7. Seventh tablet

_Have mercy._ (First prayer to the assembly of the gods)

* * *

Though the war rages on, the next days feel more peaceful than ever. Gaššulawiya sleeps in my arms every night, her head nestled against my shoulder, and when she wakes up gasping and stammering about ghosts, I hug her closer and tell her stories from Ḫatti until her eyes close again. In the morning, I leave her with a kiss and a promise to return. Now that the troops have seen me among them, I can afford to ride at the back of the army and direct operations from there, where I can be sure no enemy arrows will reach me. Still, the threat of my death is heavy over us all.

But in the evenings I sit with Gaššulawiya again, and she points out the stars at the window and tells me what they are called in her lilting language, and then she smoothes the hair away from my forehead and repeats that we’ll find a way for me to survive. My heart warms every time I hear her speak of us together – as if this was a task for her to overcome with me. Sometimes, the old questions surge back and I wonder why the gods sent her. I always silence them. It doesn’t matter why she’s here, so long as she’s at my side.

Then, as the days turn warm and we’re on the verge of taking Durmitta’s largest town, a letter from my stepmother arrives.

My hands freeze on the clay tablet when I realise whose words it bears. ‘Thus speaks the Tawananna Malnigal,’ it says, ‘tell my son Muršili…’ I skim her message as my palms grow sweaty. The king of Arzawa has refused to send back the people of Ḫatti who fled to his land after my brother became a god, and now he’s stirring his own people up against me. Yet another enemy who is taking advantage of my weakness. I can almost hear my stepmother’s voice lift from the wedges to admonish me. ‘A Great King can’t just scuffle with Gašga swine. A child could’ve won the battles you did. Are you just that, or will you show Ḫatti you are your father’s son?’

‘What is it?’ Gaššulawiya asks when I return to our room, breath short and legs unsteady. I hand her the tablet by instinct before realising she likely can’t read. She looks at me with a confused frown. I lean back against the door.

‘The king of Arzawa,’ I choke. ‘He…’

She takes my hands in hers to stop them from shaking. ‘He’s a long way away. You don’t need to worry about him now.’

‘And if everyone is right? If I’m not strong enough to defend my land? It won’t matter how sinless I am when the king of Arzawa rides against me. My father –’

‘No.’ Her voice is sharp as a dagger. ‘Don’t be your father.’

‘Then I’ll be killed, I –’

She bars my lips with a finger. ‘Don’t say it.’ She waits until my breathing slows before pulling it away again. ‘I told you. We’ll find a way to make you live.’

When I don’t answer, she puts a hand around my neck and pulls me down. Her lips meet mine. Gradually, the tension in my shoulders lessens, and, lowering my hands to her waist, I hold her against me. It feels so right to have her in my arms. I never thought I’d be comfortable touching a girl like this, but my love for her has washed away the unease.

The thought hits me harder than a warrior’s blow. Like a man loves a woman, I love her.

‘You’re stronger than you think,’ she says, her breath against my mouth. ‘The way you believed I could live better, the way you trust your gods… Those are strengths. Use them.’

‘The people of Ḫatti expect me to be a warrior king, not a soft-hearted boy. That’s what my father –’

‘Don’t be your father.’ She separates each word forcefully. ‘You’ve won battles. You already are a warrior king. You can be a warrior king your own way.’

I kiss her to stop my thoughts from spinning. Her words don’t leave my mind that night, and they grow even louder when I march against the Gašga the next morning. Maybe she’s right – maybe I don’t need to be like my father. I touch my amulet, lift my face to the bright summer sky, and the Sungoddess warms my skin.

Maybe, just maybe, who I am is enough.

When my troops storm the enemy town’s gates and lunge bellowing into the streets, despite my armour not fit for close combat, I follow. I walk amid the throng, sword low, heart beating so hard it feels like it could fall out of my mouth. Higher-pitched screams come for the centre of the town. Women, old men, children, priests are gathered there, near the steps of a temple, cowering in each other’s arms as my men rush at them. I speed up. My men are already lifting their weapons.

‘Leave them!’

The sounds of the battle swallow my voice. I shove soldiers out of the way, barely notice as I lose hold of my sword. I shout louder.

‘Word of the Great King Muršili, I said leave them!’

Before the men can bring their blades down, I push my way in front of them. Standing in the midst of the crowd of the innocent, I hold out my arms. My men’s eyes widen. They slow down, those behind jostling those in front. I don’t move.

‘Let them know we have mercy.’

As we gather the spoils in the evening, the troops mutter behind my back, but I keep my head high. If I don’t look like I believe in my choice, then nobody will. I order another sacrifice to be made to the gods and pray that I was right. That Gaššulawiya was right.

The answer comes three days later. The other towns of Durmitta have submitted to Ḫatti without a fight.

*

As the height of summer comes and goes, more Gašga tribes are defeated or submit to Muršili. Along with the kingdom, his confidence grows, and I find myself gazing at the new way he walks among his soldiers, tilts his head when listening to his generals, frowns lightly as he reads a tablet. He looks older, somehow – though his face is still the same as before, his traits just as soft, he seems less like a child. His men seem to notice it too. He’s still gentle and kind and forgiving, but he’s no longer the naive boy he used to be.

In the afternoons, when it’s safe, he takes me to walk in the forest, and at night his lips brush along my skin and pause when I shiver. Smiling against me, he breathes: ‘This is where your armour ends,’ and I pull him in and let him kiss me along the line. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to draw him in even closer. I imagine how his breath would come faster, how his sweat would run together with mine, how he would tremble as I pleasure him – then I stop myself. However sweet his touch is, he’s still the Great King, and I am nothing. At best, I will only ever be his toy, another concubine for him to use then put aside when he grows bored. Better to end it before it begins.

Still, it hurts no less when the campaign season draws to a close and I watch the men pile up the war spoils in the courtyard, round up the captives and prepare for the journey back to Ḫattuša. Soon I will be back with the priests in the Stone House. The thought makes my shoulders tense. That afternoon, when I walk in the forest with Muršili, I say nothing and stare at the endless rows of trees. Their rustling almost sounds like voices, calling me.

‘You know,’ says Muršili suddenly, without looking at me, ‘if you want to go now, I will let you.’

I glance at him. ‘You would allow me to escape?’

‘I would allow you to do whatever you need. If it’s what would make you happiest, you can go.’

‘What about the gods? You believe they sent me to serve you.’

He stops, and cups my face in his hands. His brow is only barely furrowed and his jaw set, like always when he’s trying to hold back an emotion.

‘Gaššulawiya,’ he says, ‘you’ve already done far more for me than I ever dreamed you would.’

The wind sweeps around us. I push my hair back behind my ears, then brush his out of his face. The sun is setting, turning the yellowing leaves golden.

‘You’ve been so kind to me,’ I say.

‘You deserve it. No matter what happens, remember that.’

‘Would you really let me go?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

‘What will you tell your men?’

‘That you tried to kill me, so I cut your throat.’ He bites back a smile. ‘It’s not like you didn’t try.’

I don’t laugh. His voice is strained, and my unspoken decision hangs like a ghost between us. Once I turn my back and melt into the trees, I will likely never see him again. My lungs feel empty at the thought. But I can’t stay. He has no use for me now, and I need to be free.

I force my mind to repeat it. I need to be free.

Gently, I lift his hands from my face and take a step back.

‘Close your eyes,’ I say in a voice less steady than I’d like it to be. ‘I don’t want you to see me go.’

He swallows, then obeys. I stand still for much longer than I should, memorising the shape of his face, the colour of his hair and lips, the way he stands, even the sound of his breath. Maybe, if I look hard enough, my mind will trade him against the ghosts next time they come.

‘Will you remember me?’ I ask, just loud enough that he can hear.

‘How could I not?’ He clenches his eyes tighter, as if to contain something behind them. ‘I loved you.’

I ball my hands into fists and take a step back. The leaves crackle under my feet. It’s over now, I tell myself. It’s over. I have to go. I turn around and walk into the sea of trees.

Just a few steps later, I look back. He’s still there, standing in dappled sunlight, and his eyes are open. He rubs his cheeks hastily.

‘I told you I didn’t want you to see me go,’ I say.

His voice is small, but it carries. ‘I would’ve loved you forever.’

I try to move my legs and can’t. The wind rises again. Muršili gestures towards the trees.

‘Go,’ he chokes. ‘I didn’t mean to hold you back. Go.’

‘You would’ve loved me forever.’

He’s silent for a moment, then answers quietly. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m just a temple girl. A Gašga.’

‘I don’t care. If you’d wanted it, I would’ve found a way.’

Without thinking, I make my way back through the undergrowth and wrap my arms around him. I kiss him deeply. His lips are sharp with salt. He pulls away almost at once.

‘Go,’ he repeats. ‘Don’t listen to me. I’ll close my eyes again. Go and vanish to where you belong.’

‘I don’t want to vanish.’ The words are soft on my tongue. I lace my fingers into his. ‘I want to be happy. I’m happier with you.’

He blinks. There’s tears on his lashes. ‘Gaššulawiya, you…’

I kiss his words away, at first only to keep him from talking, then more passionately. The emptiness in my lungs is gone, replaced by something warmer. When at last our lips part, Muršili lifts my chin to gaze straight at me.

‘You would really stay?’

I nod. ‘Every day of my life, if you would have me.’

‘I would have you,’ he says.

We walk back to the stronghold hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Tawananna is the title of the Hittite queen, Muršili's stepmother. The queen kept her office even after her husband's death, hence the power she holds.
> 
> At this point, I should mention that Muršili's father was probably more merciful than how I portray him here, and Muršili wasn't always so kind to his enemies either - he burned his fair share of towns during his lifetime too. That said, mercy and compassion were cornerstones of Hittite royalty, though they were practised at varying levels (based on the texts we have, Telepinu was a little bit kinder than, say, Ḫattušili III). I still maintain that Muršili's texts show a desire for mercy in a way that his father's don't: instead of having a certain criminal killed, despite it being ordered by oracle, he chooses not to, and in his prayers he specifically asks the gods to ‘destroy only the one who has sinned’ and ‘let not the good people perish with the bad people’. Šuppiluliuma's texts, on the other hand, show that he was more concerned with strategy and intrigue than with morality. Of course, this could very well be due to the nature of his texts, which are all political, as opposed to Muršili's more intimate writing.


	8. Eighth tablet

_Send away the anxiety from my heart, take away the constriction from my soul._ (First prayer to the assembly of the gods)

* * *

Five days later, I ride into Ḫattuša with Gaššulawiya at my side.

She keeps her eyes down as we cross the Lion Gate and grasps my hand tightly when the crowd cheers, but there is less tension in her body than there used to be, and when I step down from the chariot and hold out an arm for her to take, her stern face cracks open into a smile. It’s as if Ištar herself had taken off her helmet. I have to tear my gaze away from her, and even then, as a palace girl leads her away to my apartments, I can’t help but glance in her direction. My heart feels close to bursting at what she’s become.

And she’s chosen to be here, with me. I swear to make sure she never regrets it.

After the customary ceremonies, I have a priest called to the palace and give orders for a sacrifice to be made to the deity of Gašula, and an extispicy performed. If the deity confirms Gaššulawiya was bestowed on the great family, not as a servant but under his protection, nobody will be able to prevent me from keeping her at my side. From joining her, a daughter of the Moongod, to the son of the Sungoddess.

And if the deity doesn’t confirm it – I silence the thought. I will find a way.

As the priest leaves, a silhouette catches my eye. My stepmother is standing down the hallway from me, dressed in her southern embroidery and her usual sneer. She raises her eyebrows when she sees I’m looking at her, and speaks nonchalantly.

‘So you’ve fallen in love with a Gašga swine.’

I don’t answer. Agreeing with her will only make the matter worse.

‘I’d hoped that if you survived this campaign, it would teach you some things, at least,’ she continues. ‘Evidently not, so I will have to remind you myself. You’re the Great King, descended from Great Kings. Get that into your little mind, and send the girl back to the Stone House where she belongs. Ḫatti needs a Sun and a Tawananna, not a child and a war captive.’

‘The deity of Gašula sent her.’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Did your father marry for the gods? Was it them who made him strong against the land of Mitanni? Or did he banish his own wife, the woman he loved, to ally himself with my father and marry me?’

‘I am not my father.’ The words escape my mouth despite the tightness of my chest. My stepmother’s lips curl.

‘For the sake of Ḫatti, boy, you should be.’

‘No.’ I try to keep my voice firm. ‘My father has become a god, and you rule alongside me now. I will honour the gods and defend our land, but I will not be him. There are other ways to be king. I will do it as Muršili.’

Without giving her the time to answer, I turn on my heels and walk away. My hands are clammy, so I bury them in my tunic. I won’t let her words get to me. Not anymore. It’s time to make this kingdom my own.

I find Gaššulawiya waiting for me in my apartments, washed and clothed in a violet ankle-length dress. Her forest-brown hair is veiled and tied with bronze beads at her nape. She’s kneeling near the chest where I store my festival clothing and holding an ornamental dagger, running her fingers over the blade and the jeweled hilt. She raises her head when she hears me come in.

‘What is this?’ she asks.

‘The dagger I carry to rituals.’ I take a deep breath to dispel my nervousness. ‘It’s made with iron from the heavens.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ She holds it reverently, as if she’s never seen anything like it before. I realise she probably hasn’t. She turns it over, then takes a stab at the air.

‘I can have one made for you, if you like.’

Her face brightens, then dims at the tremble in my voice. She stands up.

‘What happened?’

I close the door behind me. ‘Nothing. Just my stepmother.’

Her hand tightens on the dagger. The fierceness in her eyes is back. ‘I would slit her throat for you. If you’d like.’

Despite the lightness of my breath, I laugh and draw her into my arms. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘You’re too forgiving.’

‘Then maybe you should slit my throat instead.’

In response, she lifts the dagger, glides the tip of its blade along a line just underneath my jaw. My breath comes quicker, but it isn’t from fear. I trust she won’t hurt me. I’ve trusted it ever since I first put my life into her hands, a season ago.

Without lowering the blade, she stands on her toes and leaves a kiss on my lips. She pulls away, only just, and smiles.

‘There are better things for you than death,’ she says.

Wrapping my fingers around her wrist, I lift the dagger from my skin and kiss her back. She presses herself closer to me, shoulders relaxed. Her mouth travels down to the curve of my neck, just below where she placed the blade, then over my chest, along the neckline of my tunic. As my hands make their way up her waist, her grasp on the dagger loosens. It falls onto the floor with a thud. I lead her away, let her draw me down onto the bed instead.

She slips a hand underneath my tunic, then pauses. Her eyes form a silent question. I nod. My hands on hers, I help her pull the cloth over my head, then work on undoing her own dress. The veil takes some time, but at last her hair falls free over her breasts. She’s more beautiful than ever now, with her lips parted and her bronze skin laid bare. I enlace her, let her climb onto me. My tongue traces the shape of her nipples. They harden at my touch.

Her fingers intertwined with mine, she guides my hand between her legs, helps me find a movement she likes. She lets out a small moan, and a shiver runs across my body in response. I want to keep going until the breath hitches in her throat, until she can think of nothing but the pleasure and me, but then her own hand snakes up my thigh, and I inhale sharply. Her touch is soft, almost too soft. I pull her closer. She’s warm against me, her body quivering, her eyebrows slightly knitted.

‘Is it all right?’ she asks.

I nod and kiss her open lips. ‘Are you?’

She nods back. She presses her mouth against mine again, sucks my lower lip. She moves her hips so they’re better positioned. Then, her dark eyes locked on mine, she draws me inside her.

*

It’s over before long. His eyelids flutter and he arches his neck back, mouth open in a gasp. I let my lips wander down his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. When I meet his eyes again, he gives me a trembling smile. I slide my hands underneath his head and lift it gently to kiss him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gulps. ‘It happened too fast.’

‘We have a lifetime to do it again.’ I brush a hair out of his face. ‘And again. And again.’

He wraps his arms around me and takes several more deep breaths. In a careful movement, he rolls over so that we’re lying side by side, my head on his arm, his other hand on my waist. His fingers caress me, drawing spirals on my skin.

Little by little, they find their way lower down. I lean into his touch, help him find the right motion and the right pace again. My own palms move across his back. He shivers, but then he takes one of my wrists, lifts it away, and pins it down gently but firmly against the mattress. His thumb brushes the line where my hand ends.

‘Let me,’ he whispers, his words tickling my ear. ‘This one is yours.’

‘Are you –’

My voice dissolves into a breathless moan as his fingers start their circling again. I lie back and let him give me what he wants. It takes a long time for the heat to build, far longer than it took for him, but he knows where to kiss me, and he murmurs sweet words when he feels my muscles contract. My breathing grows shallower and shallower. Then something breaks – everything turns white, and I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out but a sound still makes its way through, and for several heartbeats nothing exists but the fire that courses through me. I lie against Muršili and savour it, eyes closed. Through the haze, I sense his kiss on my forehead.

‘How are you?’ he asks.

I huddle in his arms, bury my fingers in his hair. ‘Happy.’

We stay like that for some time, then our hands start wandering and we begin again. He lasts longer this time, and I do it better, I think, because when he reaches that peak he gasps louder and clutches my waist, and when I rest my head on his chest it’s slick with sweat. He strokes my back and tells me he loves me. I cling to him tighter.

‘I love you too.’

We spend the night in each other’s arms, tangled in the sheets, and I barely dream of the ghosts from the temple. Though I can still glimpse them, in those moments before I wake up, they seem fainter now, the blood on their clothes paler. They look like the scar on Muršili’s side – still there, but fading at the edges. I blink back my tears. The sin is still painful. Maybe it would hurt less if I’d spilled Muršili’s blood in retribution, then made myself disappear.

But his ancestor was right. Blood cannot wash away blood. I turn my head towards Muršili’s sleeping face and run my fingers through his hair. We’ll take the weapons others gave us from our shoulder, and weave ourselves a kinder future.

He stirs and opens his eyes, and smiles when he sees me watching him. The rising sun trickles onto our bodies, dispelling the last echoes of my dreams. Muršili props himself up on an elbow.

‘I dreamed of you,’ he says.

‘You did?’

‘I saw you washing my wound again, and in the sky it was both day and night.’

I sit up and reach for my dress. ‘Do you think the gods showed it to you?’

‘Who knows? The diviner who read the extispicy will tell us the truth.’

I pull the dress over my head and fasten it, then begin to comb my hair. I speak without looking at him.

‘I still don’t believe the Moongod of Gašula sent me.’

‘I was never meant to be king.’ He folds his arms around my waist. ‘But we’re here now. We’ll show the land of Ḫatti, and all those who doubt us, what we are worth.’

He holds my hair back while I fasten my veil, then puts on his own clothes. His amulet of the Sungoddess reflects the morning light. He offers out his hand to me.

‘Are you ready?’

With a deep breath, I take it. He squeezes my palm.

Then, together, we walk out into the world.

* * *

_Tuppieš 8 appāi._

Eight tablets, complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> ‘Iron from the heavens’ is the Hittite term for meteoric iron. It was mainly used for elite, ceremonial objects like the dagger here.
> 
> Be thankful I didn't use Hittite sexual terminology in this scene. Be very thankful. (Write to me on Tumblr if you want to know, but honestly, you probably don't.)
> 
> As for what happened to Muršili and Gaššulawiya, they did eventually marry. Based on Muršili's texts, his love for his wife was deep, and they had four children together. Unfortunately, though Muršili was a successful king, the relationship between him and his stepmother grew more bitter, and his family's troubles didn't end there... But that's a story which deserves its own retelling, and which I will share another time.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story ^_^


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